


Eating us Alive

by solrosan



Series: Eating us Alive [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, EDNOS, Eating Disorders, Friendship, Gen, M/M, References to Suicide, Self-Induced Vomiting, Slash Goggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both John and Sherlock struggle to understand and deal with Sherlock’s complicated relationship with food when it slowly starts to spiral out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t want to tell you which goggles to use when you read this. I wrote it as non-slash and I think that brings something to the story, but I've been told it works all right as established Sherlock/John if that's what you like.

* * *

”You know, you’re probably the best looking man I know,” John told Sherlock from the doorway. Sherlock flinched at the sound of John’s voice, but didn’t turn away from the mirror in front of which he was getting undressed.

“That’s irrelevant,” Sherlock said and stopped unbuttoning his shirt.

“What part?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, nor did he move, but in the mirror John could see how the detective’s eyes were directed at the floor.

“Are you okay?” John wanted to know, suspecting Sherlock knew what he was talking about. 

“Yes.”

John wanted to believe him, so he did. It was easier and he felt he needed to trust him.

“If you wouldn’t be, or if it would change, would you tell me?”

No answer.

“Because you could. Tell me, I mean.”

After waiting for a couple of minutes for an answer that never came, John gave up and went to his room. There wasn’t much more he could do, not really, and trust was a good thing. Most of the time. 

Did he actually trust Sherlock to tell him if this became worse? 

Honestly? 

No.

It was strange really; when John had been in uni, every suspicious feeling in his legs had been a thrombus, every lump a neoplasm and every sore throat cause by MRSA, but he had still been blind to the fact that Harry showed all the signs of budding alcoholism. Now, a medical license and a war later, he still seemed just as oblivious to his loved ones’ problems.

Not completely blind perhaps, he had figured it out, but the excuse pattern he'd used this time was far too similar to the one he had used concerning Harry’s drinking. John felt slightly ashamed.

“If I told you, what would you do?”

“Jesus! You scared me,” John said as he turned around and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, wearing his robe – carefully closed for once – and holding a cup of tea between his hands.

“Look at it as payback,” Sherlock said, but unlike John he entered the room. “Well?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I tell you, what will you do?” Sherlock said, sighing. John wondered if he really thought that changing the tense would make the question more understandable, but as his heart rate slowed down he realised that he did understand.

“I don’t know,” he said, knowing perfectly well that it was not the answer Sherlock wanted.

“Would you be Dr Watson? Would you fuss? Would you pity me?” Sherlock tried to specify and make the question easier to answer for his stupid flatmate. “Would you try to talk me out of it? Would you try to understand? Would you claim you understood? Would you tell me to get over it and get myself together?”

John opened and closed his mouth repeatedly like a goldfish. Oddly, Sherlock seemed to patiently wait for his answer. That insight forced John to at least say something.

“Try me.”

“There is nothing to tell right now, but I think I understand the sentiment.” Sherlock looked at the mirror on John’s wardrobe and John wasn’t sure if the detective even was aware of it. Silence fell again and it took a while before John figured out the second reason that had made Sherlock come up to his room.

“You want to know how I figured it out, don’t you?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he turned away from the mirror and met John’s eyes for the first time tonight. John sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at Sherlock’s face with a weak smile. 

“Are you impressed or angry that I figured it out?” John asked but he still got no answer so he felt the need to point out: “Usually there’s more than one person in a conversation you know.”

“Not when I talk.”

“Well, you mostly do monologues,” John said with a more proper smile. “And I’m trying to have a dialogue here.”

“You’re failing.”

“Yeah, it appears I am.” John sighed. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t know I knew; I’ve been spending a lot of time listening outside the bathroom door.”

“I’ve never forced myself to throw up,” Sherlock said in a very low voice.

“That’s….” John started but he had no idea of what the end of that sentence should be. Was that a good thing? A bad thing? A surprise? A comfort? Was it even the truth? He realised he hoped it was the truth for whatever reason. 

“Anorexia?”

Sherlock did nothing to confirm or deny that; John took it as a yes and even though he had known, even though he had figured it out, it still made his heart ache.

“But you’re okay now?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock’s, which still held a tight grip round the tea mug. “Then how was I able to figure it out?”

“Yes, how were you able to do that?” Sherlock looked at John, his face changing from insecure and exposed to interested and vaguely annoyed.

“You mean besides the fact that you hardly eat?” John asked with a weary smile.

“I eat,” Sherlock sounded upset.

“I know you do, I’m sorry.” John took away his hand, he supposed that was a sensitive subject to even joke about right now. “But that was it. I was afraid you were going to get malnourished, so I started to keep track on what you ate.”

“I eat,” Sherlock said again, this time trying to sound offended, but it just came out flat. 

“Sherlock, I know you do,” John insisted, “As I said, I’ve been keeping track.”

“I eat….” Sherlock murmured one last time and John reached out and placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips, pulling him closer even though he could feel how reluctant Sherlock was.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, “but you wanted to know, so I’m just trying to explain…. I’m not…I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“You’re terrible at delivering deductions,” Sherlock informed him.

“Well, I have other qualities,” John let a low chuckle slip before he became serious again and stroked Sherlock’s sides, “I saw you poke and pinch your stomach the other day and that in combination with the ‘interesting’ eating habits you have and the fact that you’re always completely covered…. I saw it because I was looking for it.”

“I’m okay,” Sherlock assured him, staring down the tea.

“Is there a why?” John wondered.

“Isn’t there always?” Sherlock asked in return.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Is there?”

Sherlock didn’t answer and John felt a sting of panic without really knowing why. He did, however, know why he felt so utterly helpless; the preconception of an anorexic was a young girl who thought she was ugly because she was fat and even though John knew it wasn’t even close to the whole truth, a distorted body image was still a terrible enemy. That was why Sherlock had said it was irrelevant what John thought about his appearance, because compared to what Sherlock saw when he looked in the mirror it didn’t matter what John said. 

“Why was I able to figure it out now?” John asked. “We’ve known each other for over a year and, eating habits aside, I haven’t noticed anything until now…. So what has happened? Because it’s not a new thing is it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s periodical. Right now I’m not fine but I’m okay.”

“I believe you,” John said and took Sherlock's tea mug that had worked as a shield between them during the conversation and placed it on the floor. “But if you wouldn’t be, can you promise to tell me?”

Sherlock hesitated. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips again and looked up into his eyes.

“No matter if you tell me or not, I’m going to worry because you’re the most important person in my life,” John said, moving his thumbs slowly back and forth. “I will not pity you. I will not fuss over you. I will try to understand, but never lie and say I do, because we both know I don’t and I promise to only be Dr Watson if you need me to be. Is that good enough?”

“I am the most important person in your life?” Sherlock sounded very insecure.

“Does it really surprise you?”

“Yes.”

John pulled him even closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and resting his head on Sherlock’s stomach.

“I love you,” John said, “and even if I don’t know the ‘why’, I wish you saw yourself the way I see you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“God…don’t be,” John let him go and placed his hands on Sherlock’s stomach, “Just tell me if it becomes not-okay, okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock plucked at John’s fingertips. 

“Really? You promise?” 

“I promise,” Sherlock nodded, “and I don’t have anorexia.”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Then it matters to me too,” John said and slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist again, letting his head rest where his hands had just been. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock was pleased or displeased with not having an anorexia diagnosis, but he wasn’t going to look into that just now. In this position he could feel Sherlock’s pelvis bone and it freaked him out a bit, but if Sherlock said he was okay then John would believe him. For now.

“John….”

“What?”

“I think you’re the most important person in my life as well.”


	2. Regression of health and trust

John fought tears outside the bathroom, his forehead resting against the wood and his fingers stroking the flat surface. The shower was running, and the tap, but the water couldn’t completely hide the sound of Sherlock throwing up.

“Sherlock, open the door!” John demanded when he couldn't hear anymore retching, but since nothing happened he quickly changed back to pleading. “Sherlock, please… Just open the door. Please, Sherlock, let me in.”

Still nothing happened and after a couple of minutes (each feeling like an eternity) John went to get Sherlock’s lock-picking set. Luckily bathroom door didn't have a proper lock which made it very easy to pick even for a layman like John. John was determined and focused on the task at hand, quite frankly, the images of what waited on the other side scared him. 

It was hard to say if the reality that met him was actually worse than what he had feared or not, because the fact that it _was_ reality made it the most terrifying thing ever. The entire room was filled with steam from the shower and a lingering smell of sick. Sherlock sat on the floor opposite the toilet, curled up like a ball, his forehead against his knees, his body trembling. Standing at the door, John couldn’t say if the trembles were from crying or from the strain of vomiting. 

John’s first reaction was to yell, but since the sight stunned him he just stood there, watching the well dressed man on the poorly cleaned floor. Sherlock’s knees were dusty and John couldn’t help thinking that if this was how it was going to be from now on they needed to clean the floor better. 

He flushed the toilet without looking down and he turned off the sink tap. Then he walked passed Sherlock to turn off the shower as well before he could gather enough self-control to deal with Sherlock. He squatted between Sherlock and the toilet, placing his hands on the dust marks on Sherlock’s trousers. 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock…” John whispered and leaned forward to rest his head on Sherlock’s knees. “You promised you'd tell me.”

“Go away,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Never,” John whispered and moved his hands down Sherlock’s thighs. “This is not just your problem anymore.”

After a while Sherlock shifted and John raised his head, but when Sherlock still didn’t look up John stroked his hair instead. He was still tearing up and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t look up until he had got this under control. It wouldn't help anyone if he cried, but at least he was able to still Sherlock’s trembling body by stroking the outside of his thighs and caressing his hair. 

“Get me out of here,” Sherlock finally said and John nodded even though Sherlock didn’t see him.

John got to his feet – his bad leg had fallen asleep – and it made Sherlock look up. The detective looked…well, John didn’t know how to describe it. Damn. He closed his eyes and pressed thumb and index finger against the root of his nose. Three, two, one…. John opened his eyes and reached down with both his hands to pull Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock swayed when he stood and if it hadn’t been Sherlock’s explicit request to be taken from the bathroom John would have hugged him. Now, instead, he led him to his bedroom.

“Should I get your toothbrush?” John asked as Sherlock left his side and curled up on the bed without removing his clothes, making sure his back was towards John. 

“No, just go away,” Sherlock begged.

“You've got sick on your shirt,” John said, his voice a little bit higher than normal, and ignoring Sherlock's request. “Please take it off.”

Sherlock did nothing, he was so still that for a moment John thought that he had stopped breathing. He felt so helpless that he actually wanted to throw up too. Then he wanted to hit something – preferably Sherlock, really – and after all that cry himself to sleep sounded like a good thing to do. 

Without a word he removed his shoes and crawled up in bed behind Sherlock who visually tensed up. John didn’t care and lay down behind him, gently placing an arm around him, seeking for a hand to hold. He found both of them in front of Sherlock’s mouth and he took a very tentative hold of one of them. As a pleasant surprise – even if it made John's chest hurt – Sherlock wrapped both his hands around his and held on as if his life depended on it. John felt Sherlock’s warm breath on his hand, himself breathing into Sherlock’s neck; the smell of the detective’s cologne mixed with sweat and vomit made him sad.

Slowly Sherlock’s body relaxed as their breathing synchronised and John rested his lips on the back of Sherlock’s neck in a never-ending kiss. With random frequency Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and John responded the same way, believing it was a way to ask if he had fallen asleep. Very slowly the anger and frustration John had felt, along with the tears building up in his chest, subsided and he was left feeling empty and drained. 

“Please tell me the ‘why’, Sherlock,” John murmured against Sherlock's neck after more than an hour of just lying on the bed. The only answer he got was a long, tight hand-squeeze and, honestly, something else would have surprised him, but he needed to know. He needed to know so badly what type of demons Sherlock was fighting; what they had been when this all started, what they were now…. All of it.

“Why won’t you give me the tools to help you?” John whispered and pressed an actual kiss on one of Sherlock’s cervical vertebrae before sighing deeply. “I can’t deduce the ‘why’. I’m not you.”

This time he got no response whatsoever so he squeezed Sherlock’s hand instead, earning him a light squeeze back. Good. 

“You saved my life.” John twined Sherlock’s black curls with his free hand. “I didn’t carry that gun to shoot random cabbies you know. It just… Life wasn’t… I joined the army to get away from so many things and when I came back they were all still here; Harry’s drinking, our bigoted parents, everything… And on top of that were my shoulder and my leg and the nightmares. I faced my mortality every single night. It was – Sherlock, you’re really hurting my hand.”

During the time John had been talking Sherlock had squeezed his hand harder and harder. At his words, Sherlock let go of some pressure, but still he kept John’s hand tight in his. John took the time to kiss the back of Sherlock’s neck again.

“You saved my life,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. You saved me, please let me try to do the same.”

Silence fell and John focused to get his breathing down to the same rhythm as Sherlock's again. Before he managed to do so, Sherlock turned to his back, forcing John to move away a bit. Sherlock kept John’s hands between his and stared up at the ceiling. John just watched his grave silhouette, awaiting something…anything.

“You don’t have to tell me,” John finally said when nothing seemed to happen, but he sat up because the position Sherlock’s movement had forced him into was uncomfortable. Sherlock let go of his hand and John let it slide down over grey shirt and stopped just above the waistband. The muscles in Sherlock’s stomach got tense and John removed his hand completely.

“Sorry,” he said, not really grasping what he was sorry about, and placed both hands in his lap instead. He looked down at them, not sure what he should do, what he could do, what Sherlock wanted or needed him to do.

“John?” Sherlock’s whisper rang loud as a scream and John looked up, startled. “I’m sorry.”

John reached out for Sherlock’s hand again and squeezed it lightly; if he’d had a response to that it got stuck in his throat. Sherlock squeezed back hard and John’s thumb started to move in small circles on top of Sherlock’s.

“I trust you with my life, Sherlock,” John said and their eyes met again. “Can I trust you with your own?”

Sherlock nodded and John’s will to trust him was stronger than his good sense.

“Then I’ll do that,” John promised, “but in return, promise to tell me next time? Or if I’m doing something…please tell me. Okay?”

“Yes.”

John lay down next to Sherlock again and pulled him into a hug without as much as a wince in protest from the detective. He didn’t believe Sherlock’s promise for a second, but he had said he would trust him, so he was going to do just that. Even if he knew it was stupid, even if he now knew Sherlock had lied about ever inducing vomiting, even if he knew – all too well – the tricks and excuses of a self-harming addict. Still he was going to trust, because Sherlock had come through this before and hopefully he would do it again. Who knew, maybe what had happened today had scared Sherlock enough to actually seek help if he needed it. 

“Don’t kill yourself John,” Sherlock whispered and John held him tighter.

“I won’t if you won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theivoryfool](http://theivoryfool.tumblr.com/) has done [wonderful art for this chapter](http://solrosan.tumblr.com/post/43166268676/thepalefool-sherlock-and-john-for-solrosan). Thank you so much, dear!


	3. Another way to show I care

”Don’t look at me when I eat. It’s very unnerving.” Sherlock frowned and put down his fork. “Not to mention rude.”

“Can you blame me?” John asked, the question coming out a bit harsher than he had intended.

“I thought you were supposed to trust me.”

John snorted. “Well, it’s established that I have trust issues. Not to mention the fact that _you’re_ not honouring _your_ part of our deal, so I think I’m in the clear.”

Sherlock looked more than a little busted.

“Yes I know,” John hissed. “I’m not stupid. Or blind for that matter. For a genius, you’re incredibly stupid sometimes.”

“Have you been spying on me?”

“Shut up!” John frizzed. “You have no right to be offended by that!”

“Oh, really?”

“Really! You have pried in my personal life since the very second we met; because you’re bored, because you need something for a bloody experiment or just because you’re too fucking lazy to get your own damn things!” John paused to take a breath but made sure to continue before Sherlock recovered. “So if I keep track of your eating and bathroom habits because I _care about you_ then _no_ you have no right to be offended by it!”

Demonstratively, Sherlock pushed his plate away and glared at John.

“The five-year-old approach?” John raised an eyebrow. “That’s constructive. What’s next? Holding your breath until you faint?”

Encouraged, perhaps, by John’s suggestion, Sherlock took a deep breath and held it.

“For the love of…” John reached out and pinched Sherlock hard on the top of his hand to make him gasp in pain. He was very successful; Harry had trained him well in dirty tricks. “Are you done being a prick? There are real five-year-olds who involuntary starve to death at this very moment! Show them some respect and bloody eat!”

“You said you were not going to do that.” Sherlock kept his voice very matter-of-fact, but John knew him well enough to see the insecurity in his posture. It didn’t matter though. Right now it didn’t matter at all.

“Do what? Guilt you into doing what you’ve promised me to do? Why should I keep my word when you don’t?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Whose bloody fault is that? You don’t say shit!” John screamed. “But I’m trying here! I’m trying to trust you! I’m trying to believe you! I’m trying to ignore everything and it’s killing me to see you kill yourself!”

Sherlock blinked and something – a tic in the corner of his mouth, a rapid blinking, an irregularity in his breathing, John had no idea what – made John cold from the inside out, putting his anger and frustration on hold for a while. His head spinning.

“That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” John’s voice was completely flat. “You’re slowly committing suicide.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock huffed. “There are much more time efficient ways if that was the endgame.”

“Like heroin?” John felt a strange jolt of satisfaction when Sherlock stared at him in shock. “Yes, I know about that too. Did you really think I wouldn’t look into it after Lestrade’s drugs bust and your idiotic move with the pills? Or did you just think I was too stupid to find them?”

“I’m clean,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, giving John flashbacks to when he had ensured him that he ate. Just like that time, John knew that what Sherlock said was true; he had got rid of the drugs and if Sherlock would have tried to use them, this wouldn’t have been a surprise to him. Still he said:

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m clean,” Sherlock argued even though the argument was lousy and he tore up both his shirt sleeves to show John his arms. John refused to look at them, instead he stared into Sherlock’s eyes.

“For how long? Hm? Two more weeks? A day? ‘til the end of 2015?” John asked, the anger growing stronger again to cover up the disappointment.

“You don’t get it,” Sherlock told him again, shaking his head. 

“Of course I don’t!” John screamed. “All I see is you lying to me! And I’ve done nothing to deserve that! All I’ve ever done is trying to help! I get you to eat, I get you to sleep, I even risk my own bloody life when you’re too stupid to care about your own!”

“I never asked you to do any of that!” For the first time Sherlock raised his voice and it startled John a bit. “Everything was fine before you started to butt in!”

“So this is _my fault_ ¬?”

“It might as well be!”

“You can’t be serious!”

“YOU’RE TAKING MY CONTROL!” Sherlock bellowed. 

John blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Wha- what now? Before he had managed to gather his thoughts, Sherlock got up from the table without another word and left the kitchen.

“Come back!” John had no hope for that order to be obeyed. Instead he followed, getting Sherlock’s bedroom door slammed in his face and before he could get it open he heard how Sherlock locked it.

“Damn it, Sherlock! You can’t blame me for this!” John yelled and kicked the door in frustration, but got no answer. At least it wasn’t the bathroom Sherlock had locked himself in. Not that it would stop him to dispose of dinner if he really wanted to.

“I officially do not trust you anymore!” John yelled, breathing as if he’d run a sprint uphill. To get one final word in this stupid argument he kicked the door again. Just because.

First when he managed to calm his breathing he stopped staring down the door and instead sat down on the floor, leaning his head against the wall with closed eyes. This was a bit not good. Right now he felt like the biggest idiot the world – or at least in the UK, he had got to know some real dumbfucks during a NATO-operation. Not to mention that he felt like the worst friend and that was a much more devastating feeling. Was Sherlock right? Had he meant what he said, was it his fault things had started to go out of hand? 

Regardless if that was the case or not (John wished it wasn’t), he still hadn’t lived up to what constituted a good friend. He had ignored the problem, the self-abuse, because it had been more convenient for him. He had hidden behind the excuse that he ought to trust Sherlock and not wanting to risk their friendship with a confrontation. Choosing their friendship over Sherlock’s health and life, how could he do that? He wasn’t sure he deserved Sherlock’s friendship.

If he was the problem though, what the hell could he do? 

A sob bubbled up through his chest, but he muffled it in the bend of his arm. He had no right to cry and he couldn't let Sherlock hear him. Before he had managed to completely gain control over himself and his breathing, Sherlock opened the door. Sherlock looked shattered and John had to bite his forearm to not sob again.

“Do you hate me?” Sherlock whispered and John shook his head and slowly lowered his arms from his face to be able to answer.

“No… but I’m really close to hating myself,” he said, barely audible.

Sherlock got down on the floor in front of him and reached out his arms as an invitation to a hug. John gratefully wrapped his arms around him. As soon as the detective’s arms embraced him, John broke down crying into the bend of Sherlock’s neck.

This was just completely backwards.


	4. Aftermath

As soon as he possibly could, John stifled the tears and gently pushed Sherlock away. He took some deep breaths and dried his eyes and nose on his sleeve. Sherlock gave him space, but stayed close enough for John to actually hear him breathe. With a trembling sigh John gathered the courage to meet Sherlock’s eyes where he saw insecurity mixed with hurt and shame. There was something completely devastating surrounding Sherlock – John didn’t even want to think about how he looked himself.

“I’ve ruined your shirt,” John said apologetically, shyly touching the damp mark his hysteric crying had created on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Just be glad I wasn’t wearing the jacket,” Sherlock said with a weak smile. John made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. The smile on Sherlock’s face, weak and forced as it might be, was still wonderful to see. The _effort_ was wonderful to see. They rarely bothered with that anymore; laughs, smiles, giggles…it all just felt empty and false, like they were trying to cover up something. The only thing that had remained normal was Sherlock’s condescending glares when he though John was an idiot; John treasured it every time it happened.

So the forced, weak smile was wonderful to see. Even better than an honest, condescending glare.

John felt as if he could breathe for the first time in weeks without having an enormous weight pressing on his chest. The cry had left him empty and faint, but also strangely free; he knew it was just a temporary feeling but he cherished it. The exhaustion, and the sight of the smile slowly fading from Sherlock’s lips, brought new tears to his eyes and he had to blink repeatedly to stop them from spilling over.

The floor was uncomfortably hard, but John found no reason to get up. Honestly, he could stay forever in this fragile bubble that had been created around them in the short period of time after his crying had subsided. The bubble was full of understanding and attempts to make amends. There were no solutions in the bubble – you can’t find that many solutions on the floor – but there were first steps; first steps that needed to be followed later on with more steps, outside the bubble. That was the hard part and John wanted – he needed – the easy first steps the bubble provided.

“John, I….” Sherlock’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and his eyes were directed at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” John said and rubbed his face in the hope of getting the tear daze to disappear. Liberating as the daze was, he knew he couldn’t stay there. He didn’t know what he was apologising for, if it was the argument, the tears, the lack of trust, the breaking of promises or the fact that he had done nothing to prevent all of this from happening in the first place. Either way, it felt like the right thing to say. He had a lot to be sorry for.

“Do you really blame me?” John asked hesitantly, dreading the answer. Sherlock met his eyes again and a part of John died in that very moment, realising that Sherlock _did_ blame him.

“No more than you blame me,” Sherlock answered in a low, but sober, voice.

It wasn’t enough to just close his eyes to avoid the verbal slap Sherlock delivered, John had to turn his head and bite his lip. A wave of guilt took John’s breath away because, oh, how much he blamed Sherlock for all of this. Even though he knew better, even though he had promised not to, even though he – in theory – understood that it was a medical condition, he still just wanted to tell Sherlock to get his act together and stop being such a pain. He wanted to shake him, hit him, scream at him, scold him… Just something, anything, to make him see reason and come to his senses, to end this. To make him shape up and eat.

If it had been Sherlock’s intention to hurt him, he had managed well. The bubble had burst, but when John opened his eyes, at least Sherlock was still there, looking guilty and pale. John wasn’t close to hating himself anymore, now he really _did_ hate himself. A part of him probably hated Sherlock too, but that part wasn’t allowed to be heard right now. Above everything though, he despised what Sherlock was doing to himself. Had anyone else treated Sherlock this way, John would have hung the person by the toes from Tower Bridge. 

“You said I took your control,” John said, echoing Sherlock’s bellow as if he just remembered it and not as if it had been ringing in his ears this whole time.

“Don’t…” Sherlock shook his head and got to his feet.

“Sherlock.” John was quick to stand up and stopped Sherlock from walking away by reaching for his arm. Sherlock looked back and their eyes met for a moment before he looked down at the floor.

“I know you’re scared. That part I get, I’m scared too,” John whispered and let his hand slide down Sherlock’s arm to take his hand instead. “But I’m right here, Sherlock, right here, and I’m not going anywhere. No matter what you say or how much you blame me.”

Sherlock hesitated and John waited, not really sure if he would let Sherlock leave or continue to force him to stay if he tried to walk away again. He didn’t have to find out because instead of fleeing, Sherlock squeezed his hand. John placed himself right in front of Sherlock and took his other hand as well.

“I’m right here,” John promised, squeezing both of Sherlock’s hands to prove it. “Talk to me.”

Sherlock shook his head and refused to look at John. 

“Damn it, Sherlock, don’t do this,” John pleaded. “Don’t shut me out.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock whispered. John felt like slapping him; that would most likely be counterproductive. It would feel good though. So good.

“Why?” 

“Because you care,” Sherlock whisper so quietly that John almost didn’t hear him, “and I… I don’t want to make you sad.”

John squeezed his eyes shut so hard purple and orange dots started to dance under his eyelids as he let go of Sherlock’s hands and instead embraced him in a close hug.

“That’s too late,” he whispered, refusing to let go when Sherlock wanted to back away. “I’m so, so sad to see you do this. It hurts, Sherlock, because I love you.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, tears muffling the words. John slowly stroked his back. “I try to eat because I don’t want you to worry… but it makes it worse. I eat when I don’t want to and it’s…”

“Why haven’t you told me?” John breathed when Sherlock’s voice seemed to die out; his knees were so weak he almost had to lean on Sherlock to keep standing. He could feel Sherlock shaking his head and trying to break free from the embrace. John let him, just partly because of the shock.

Sherlock walked passed him without either of them looking up. John stared at the floor, feeling defeated. For months he had been searching for some sort of explanation, some sort of reason, but now when he finally had one he couldn’t say it made him feel that much better. 

Sherlock had been right; it was his fault, he was the one to blame.

Trying to get his back straight, John told himself that this was a good thing. It really was. Now he knew, now he could do something about it. Or could he really? Would he ever be able to stop trying to get Sherlock to eat? If he let it go, could he trust Sherlock to become better all by himself?

Determined to not leave it like this, John went to see where Sherlock had disappeared to. He had no idea what he would find or what to do when he did indeed find it, but hopefully he would figure it out in time. 

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, holding both their dinner plates in his hands and staring undetermined at his own plate which still contained most of his unfinished portion of spaghetti. He looked stunned and utterly helpless; John’s entire body ached when he saw it, but at least it became very clear to him what he should do. He walked up to Sherlock and took the plates. For a moment Sherlock didn’t want to let go, but when he finally did, he closed his eyes and took a step back.

“Go,” John said with a sigh as he saw the cold sweat break out on Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock hesitated and looked tormented at John who had no desire to look back at him. Instead John focused on throwing the food in the bin.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered. John frowned. 

“Please don’t thank me for this,” he asked and stared at the dirty plates in the sink as he started to fill up the dish water, “Just…turn the shower on, will you?”

There was no spoken answer to his plea, but soon enough he heard the door to the bathroom close and the sound of the shower running. John took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Almost all of the pressure over his chest that the crying had taken away had come back, making every breath a struggle. This wasn’t just killing Sherlock, John realised. This was killing him too.


	5. Fighting for understanding and normality

It was hard to force yourself to throw up by putting two fingers down your throat John noticed while standing on his knees in front of the toilet. There was nothing wrong with the gag reflex, but keeping the fingers down there to continue to trigger it until it resulted in something else than dry heaving was something else entirely.

The seventh time he stuck his finger down his throat he got the result he wanted. Finally the dinner worked its way up through the oesophagus due to the repeated retching and his stomach content spilled over. After two waves of vomiting, he knew he could probably swallow down the nausea and be done, but instead he forced his fingers into his mouth again, until all his body could produce was gastric acid.

Gasping for air John spitted repeatedly and flushed the toilet with his clean hand, washing his vomit-covered hand with the flushing water in the process. He wiped his hand on his jeans and his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater before falling back against the wall.

That had been… disgustingly horrifying. Or horrifyingly disgusting? The determination it took to do that was…

Feeling a bit faint, he got on his feet and walked over to the sink. The bathroom mirror told him that he had grown rather pale beneath the flustered cheeks and the cold sweat had given him a very unattractive glow.

Stepping into the shower to cleanse himself form the terrible experience he wondered if it had done any good. As the steam from the shower filled the small room it became pretty obvious to him that what he’d just done had been completely idiotic.

Two wrongs never made a right and he still didn’t get it.

“I just conducted an experiment,” said John when he entered the kitchen in his bathrobe some thirty minutes later. 

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, conducting a more scientific experiment than the one John had just preformed. Sherlock didn’t look up, but he frowned disapprovingly.

“So I heard,” he muttered, disposing the pipette tip before replacing it with a new one. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” John asked, sighing, and put the kettle on; he needed to get a new taste in his mouth.

“Answering with a counter-question is not a very skilful rhetorical tactic.”

“So is being an arse,” John said. “Do you want tea?”

“No.” Sherlock took another tip and repeated his pipetting once again. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

Sherlock looked up at him and just glared; one of those honest, condescending glares that still hinted of normality. It almost made John smile.

“It’s hard,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “And rather messy. And completely disgusting.”

“Yes, I’ve come to the same conclusion, and even though I've noticed it follows a somewhat distinct learning curve, I still prefer the use of emetics.”

“Jesus, Sherlock…”

“Saltwater,” Sherlock went on, ignoring John’s weary sigh, and going back to his microtitre plate. “It’s cheap and discreet.”

John rubbed his face, feeling slightly nauseous again. Why did Sherlock tell him this? So he could stop him? So he would know he was outwitted? The experiment had partly been an attempt to open up a line of communication, to get a glimpse of how it was, but he had not planned to be discussing purging techniques. 

He made his tea in silence, feeling how the all too familiar frustration crept up on him again; lately he had become very short tempered. For his sanity he decided to let it all go for now. Even the emetic part. He left for the sitting room and the telly, pretending very hard that he hadn’t forced himself to vomit less than one hour ago, and acting as if everything was normal and just bloody wonderful. 

In the kitchen he could hear Sherlock starting to hum a tune he often played on the violin. John was curious to what he was doing since they had no equipment in the flat to perform an ELISA and just practicing pipetting felt redundant. 

Two commercial breaks later, Sherlock came out to the sitting room carrying a box of crackers. He held it out to John.

“Take a cracker; it’ll make you feel better.”

“I highly doubt that,” John muttered, but he took the box from Sherlock anyway. He didn’t take any crackers, just held the box in his hands, waiting for Sherlock to leave, but Sherlock didn’t.

“Well?” Sherlock he asked instead.

“Well, what?” said John, actually smiling when he saw how the repeat of the conversation in the kitchen annoyed Sherlock.

“Your ‘experiment’, did you get any significant results?”

“Statistically significant? Not really, I just have one sample.”

“Anything to build a hypothesis on?”

“Yes, but no further research.”

“What’s the hypothesis?”

“That you’re determined and stubborn.” John nodded to underline his words.

“You needed to induce vomiting to figure that out?” Sherlock sounded very doubtful. “I’d hoped your observatory skills were better than that.”

John rolled his eyes, and opened the box of crackers to show that he ignored the last comment. After taking two, he offered the box to Sherlock. Sherlock took a cracker, and, to John’s surprise, he sat down on the coffee table.

Sherlock turned the cracker between his fingers, putting all his focus on it and not even glancing at John. John barely dared to breathe.

“I don’t enjoy it,” Sherlock finally said after having broken the cracker in two. “I find it absolutely disgusting. That’s why I haven’t done it before.”

“You mean before I started to meddle?”

Sherlock nodded and looked up to meet John’s eyes for a short moment before they both looked away. After a long silence Sherlock said: “It’s not your fault.”

John sighed. “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

“That’s a false dichotomy."

John chuckled quietly at that. It was a bit strange how comforting that was to hear, not to mention how wonderful it was to see Sherlock's frown turn into a smile.

“How did this start, Sherlock?” John asked when the short pleasure of the chuckle had disappeared. “Why do you do it?”

“It is said to be insanity to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results,” said Sherlock as if he was stating the obvious, but John really wanted call him on hiding his insecurity behind rudeness.

John shrugged. “You call me an idiot at least twice a week, so...” 

“Has it occurred to you that I might not want you to know the reasons?”

“It has,” John admitted. “Is it so?”

Sherlock finished crumbling the cracker between his fingers, letting all the crumbs fall on the floor. John waited and waited and waited but there was no answer, which he took as a yes; Sherlock didn’t want him to know the reason this had started once upon a time. It hurt to not be trusted with the reasons they lived in this hell. He realised it was a petty feeling, but it didn’t help. 

“I won’t ask again,” John sighed. “But can you at least promise me to stop using salt water? Because that’s just a whole different level of stupid.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Sherlock snapped. “Do you really think I would— Don’t you think I know that?”

“No! Because you’re obviously stupid enough to start in the first place.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, and got up.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry!” John yelled after him. “Come back here!”

The only response he got what the bedroom door being slammed shut. John made a frustrated sound, turning up the volume on the telly. When had they turned into this? When had it been impossible for them to go an entire day without yelling at each other? At least today it had been about the thing that was actually tearing them apart and not… dirty dishes.

About an hour later, Sherlock came back out and curled up next to John on the sofa. John completely forgot about the movie he was watching and just stared at Sherlock. Sherlock promptly ignored John, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. John almost wished it was, or that it could be. To try it out, John took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock didn’t protest. 

“Don’t do that again,” Sherlock said after a while. “I promise to never use emetic again, if you promise to never do that again.”

“I promise,” John said without hesitation. 

He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and didn’t let go until the end of the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been quite heavily edited 2016-02-21


	6. Tell me this night is over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from [the song with the same](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMY_EUw1MUI) name by The Ark.

* * *

John panted heavily, instinctively rubbing his scar. He was sitting in his bed, eyes tightly closed and his entire body covered in cold sweat. It had been weeks since his last nightmare, he had almost forgotten the panic and the anxiety that came with it; and the relief when reality seeped back and he realised he was back in London.

“Thank you,” he mumbled and searched for Sherlock with his hand. He found the Sherlock's knee and let the body heat speed up the process of finding his way back to reality as Sherlock took his hand. Well, reality and reality, in what kind of reality did Sherlock wake him from nightmares? That had happened exactly zero times before.

Sherlock had turned on the bedside lamp at some point and John had to blink and rub his eyes before he was able to focus on him where he sat next to him on the bed. It took yet another moment before he realised that Sherlock’s robe was open over his pyjama bottoms. John had never seen Sherlock without a shirt and most of his waken hours were spent wondering about the state of his friend’s body. He couldn’t help that he stared at the exposed torso. 

Of course Sherlock noticed and he was very quick to let go of John’s hand to cover himself properly. With a sigh John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and moved his hand to Sherlock’s stomach.

“I don’t like when you do that,” Sherlock murmured, but didn’t pull away. Hardly even tensed up.

“Well, I’m not so keen about some things you do either,” John said without raising his head and instead of removing his hand he stroked Sherlock with his thumb. “So you just have to live with this.”

Sherlock rested his head against John’s and John could feel him trying to breathe through the uncomfortable feeling of having John’s hand on his belly. John had no intention to take it away or to stop moving his thumb and finally Sherlock’s whole body relaxed as their breaths synchronised. An incredible calm filled John, the last tension from the nightmare disappeared and he sighed.

“Do you want some tea?” Sherlock whispered and John couldn’t help that he chuckled. 

“That would be nice.”

“I’ll be back,” Sherlock said and almost jumped off the bed. Confused, John looked after him. Was Sherlock going to bring him tea in bed? This was officially a parallel universe now. Or maybe he was still dreaming? If so, he really didn’t want to wake up before he saw the result of this.

Sherlock had left the door to his bedroom open so John could hear everything that happened in the kitchen. This was really happening! He could hear Sherlock poking around in the pantry, getting the mug (mugs? Hard to say) ready, pouring water… It was fascinating, and soon enough Sherlock appeared in the doorway again with a tea mug in one hand and a box of cracker in the other. 

“Why do we only have teas that smell like perfume?” Sherlock wondered with a disapproving frown as he handed John the mug and sat down on the bed; strategically out of reach for John. 

“Because I like them and you never do the shopping,” John answered with a smirk. 

The explanation didn’t seem quite satisfying to Sherlock, but instead of pushing the question he opened the box of crackers and took one before offering the box to John.

“You’re not eating crackers in my bed,” John told him and blew on the tea.

“It appears I am,” Sherlock answered and took another cracker when John didn’t take the box.

“Give me a cracker,” John asked and as soon as he got one, he threw it at Sherlock who – to John’s delight – smiled but didn’t throw any crackers back. John smiled as well and inhaled the scent of the tea; he had never thought about it before but Sherlock was right, it actually smelled like perfume.

It was a strange and novel feeling to sit with Sherlock in bed, drinking tea and eating crackers at 4 o’clock in the morning but John realised he liked it. Somehow it felt very natural and never had the demons from a nightmare been so easy to keep at bay.

“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” John broke the silence to confirm what he had been thinking about for some weeks now, not to mention _felt_ when he had put his hand on Sherlock's stomach moments ago.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a confidence he had been lacking for so long. It was wonderful to hear.

“Good,” John said, his relief probably very clear in both his voice and his face. It was mirrored in Sherlock’s eyes and John put away his mug to be able to lean forward and hug him.

“John.”

John could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t ‘John’ me,” he said and then lowered his voice to not much more than a whisper. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered back into John’s neck. “For everything.”

John wasn’t sure what to answer, hadn’t he been the one making everything so messy this time? Hadn’t he made ever thing worse? The sincerity was liberating though and there were no traces of blame in Sherlock’s voice. John held him even closer.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John told him since nothing else seemed to fit and then he slowly let go of his friend. “But let’s not do this again for a while, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock said with a slight blush and a weak smile as if he wasn’t sure he could promise something like that. John had faith though and if it would happen again, at least he would be better prepared to deal with it. Hopefully making it better.

“I still want you to tell me if anything happens,” John said and reached for his tea mug again. “Promise me?”

“That haven’t worked out so well in the past,” Sherlock said, sounding and looking a bit guilty. “And I don’t want to disappoint you if I can’t keep it.”

Well, at least he was honest and John appreciated that; it would have been nice to have got the promise though. In the end it didn’t matter John realised, his feelings were the same either way; stupid and naive as they might be.

“I trust you,” he said, feeling genuinely glad to be able to say it and mean it again. 

Sherlock looked moved and stunned for a moment, but then he smirked and shook his head. “Idiot.”


End file.
